To Death and Glory
by GirlFromNorth
Summary: Death and glory may sound awe-inspiring, but Éomer would much rather have his sister alive and healthy.


**This is written for day one of Tolkien Gen Week; the theme is "familial relationships". I was overall overjoyed to see a week dedicated to gen stories (not to mention that I _always_ miss these kind of weeks), but since I had four deadlines last week (yikes) I haven't exactly managed to produce a lot of content. **

**All scenes related to Rohan are some of my favorites from the movies (the soundtrack alone is enough to bring me to tears), and it's a disgrace that I've yet to write anything about either Éowyn or Éomer.**

 **Summary: "Death and glory may sound awe-inspiring, but Éomer would much rather have his sister alive and healthy."**

* * *

The dread closed in on his heart like a cold fist clad in iron, and was he not wiser, he would have claimed that it was _his_ heart and mind that the Nazgûl had ensnared instead of hers. It was an easy thing to wish for, sitting in the crowded Houses of Healing, the moans and sighs of wounded and dying all around him, tight-lipped healers rushing around in a chaotic yet strictly organized dance, caught in a grappling war with death itself where they stubbornly pry the still living away from the final rest's eternal embrace. It was an easy thing to wish for, aye, when it was not a stranger or a distant acquaintance lying still as death before him. It was easy to wish to trade places with the one before him, when it was his sister caught in the deadly claws of the Black Breath.

Death and despair, coldness and unconquerable darkness, all things said to be a consequence of a Nazgûl – all things his sister was now caught in. Despair, darkness, and coldness had already closed in over her, but he'll be damned before he let death try to take her away from the world of the living. The sickly sheen of sweat over her face made it look as though she ought to be burning with fever, but her face was cold as ice, and yet the blackened arm made the rest of her feel warm. She felt like a corpse left out during a cold midwinter night, and Éomer listened transfixed to the sound of her breathing, pained by its shallowness but terrified of it stopping, and he intently rubbed her hands in a vain attempt at bringing warmth back to her body.

He should – he should tend to his duties, whatever they may be now that the King was dead _(and oh, did his heart rebel against such a thought),_ look after his men, gather the remaining officers of Rohan and get a grip of how many good men were lost in the battle, meet with the Steward of Gondor _(was there a Steward still? He imagined he had heard a whisper of a foul rumour regarding the fate of Lord Denethor),_ make plans for the rations for his soldiers, plan – plan something more, he should… Yes, he ought to, but he could not bring himself to leave Éowyn's sickbed just yet _(who then would listen to her breathing, make sure it did not stop?)._

No, he could not leave yet.

He had already left her once _(far more than once, a cruel part of his mind whispered_ ), lying upon the field of Pelennor. Shield splintered and arm broken, pale as death and unmoving among the bodies of orc and men, the long and ghastly beheaded body of a mighty dragon-like creature – not a glimmer of life was to be seen in the shieldmaiden of Rohan, and he had been too overcome by blinding rage and uncomprehending grief to even stop and feel for the beat of life in her neck or the breath of her lungs. Rage was a powerful weapon, aye, and many orc may have slain in the haze of wrathful bloodthirst, aye, but had he but stopped for a second more he would have been able to get her to the Houses of the Healing much quicker.

 _(She could have died there, on the blood-soaked field, and none would have been the wiser of her survival. Gods help him, but what if the reason for her condition is Éomer's own lust for vengeance, what if she would have been fine if he had gotten her to a healer faster, what if, what if, what if –)_

"Lord Éomer?" a voice called out, barely more than a whisper, wary and unsure and a tad bit breathless. It was clearly not the first time his name had been called. "My lord –"

"Aye."

His voice felt hollow, strong and loud it may yet be, but it felt to him like the dull clang of a rusted old shield, and he could not hear himself in his own voice. He dragged his gaze away from Éowyn and focused them on the healer in front of him – too young and nervous to be a healer, most likely an apprentice or someone hastily chosen to help with the overwhelming number of wounded ones.

"My apologies, my lord, but there is nothing more that can be done right now. You should get some rest, lest you end up in a sickbed as well."

"If it would come to that, I trust you will grant me a sickbed next to my sister."

"My lord Éomer –"

"Too often have I left when I should have stayed. No, I will not leave. There has been no sign of improvement, and I will not leave while the threat of my sister dying still hovers above her."

If she was to die, the least he could do was honour her by not letting her die alone. He would keep watch and give his blessings if she was to pass on; she was more than deserving of a place among their proud forbearers. How many of their ancestors could proudly announce them capable of such a deed that Éowyn could?

A gripping tale it would make, would it not? The shieldmaiden of Rohan, the white lady, riding to a great war and slaying both a Nazgûl and its beast, defending her King with her very life. A fine legend, it would be. She would like that, wouldn't she? Glory and death in defence of her king and country. And for all the pride that was burning in his chest _(his sister, slaying a Nazgûl!),_ he would rather have that hellish beast yet drawing air than to have Éowyn succumb to death. To death and glory, they rode…

Oh, but sister dearest, glory can be found in life just as much as in death. Would not a living legend be more exciting than a dead one? They were both little wild hellions in their childhood, loving nothing more than the gripping tales of dragons and wars and triumphant heroes of distant ages.

Éomer had always preferred his heroes to survive their battles.

So he waited, his sister's hand growing colder still.

* * *

 **.**

 **I love both the book and movie version of Éomer's reaction to finding Éowyn on the fields of Pelennor (although perhaps the movie even more), but here I chose to go with the book. Reviews are, as always, precious!**


End file.
